Page 48

48

Eva

Jonathan is gone for a super long time. So long that I take a shower, blow-dry my hair, order breakfast and eat it. So long that I start to get nervous. Force of habit. I’m used to things going very, very wrong. Fast.

Maybe he took a job. Maybe he’s hurt, trapped, dead. Maybe he’s not coming back.

Sherri’s called me half a dozen times. I should call her back. I should quiz her about all my doubts: about Andrew and the agency and everything Jonathan said. With all these doubts, I’m not even sure if I can move forward with this job. Maybe I’m making excuses to save Jonathan, or maybe I’m making excuses to save myself.

Last night I told Jonathan he should quit. “Just stop,” I said.

Projecting much?

Maybe I’m the one who wants to quit. Even if all my doubts are unfounded. Even if I really am saving the world, maybe I don’t want to do it anymore. Maybe I want to have my own world that’s worth saving.

Maybe Jonathan and I could both quit, together. I don’t know exactly where we would go, but I have a feeling we could go anywhere. I don’t know what any of that would look like, but I know that it’s fucking hard to meet someone. I know that it’s worth taking a chance. I know that if I don’t, I might regret it for the rest of my life.

So I wait. Even when Jonathan is gone for way too long.

Then I hear his key card in the lock.

The door opens. He walks into the room. I can immediately sense that something has changed. Call it an instinct. I don’t want to overreact. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions.

“Sorry I took so long,” he says. His voice is light. “I got lost.” I don’t believe him.

I watch him walk toward me. His walk is a little stiffer than usual, a little slower. What’s different? What’s changed?

I look down at his hands and see that they’re not moving. They’re perfectly still. And I realize: He’s not nervous anymore. The whole time I’ve known Jonathan, from day one on the train, he’s been nervous, anxious, a kid with a crush.

Now he’s totally calm.

This job favors those who act before they think.

I dart for his ankle. I pull the knife from his sock and throw him off-balance, so he stumbles backward. I charge him. I force him back against the wall. I press the knife against his throat.

He hardly even seems bothered. His breath is a little heavier. His eyes a little duller. With incredible nonchalance, he draws an antique rapier from a sheath behind his back and points it into the soft underside of my jaw.

“I got this at the flea market you told me about,” he says. “I wanted to show you.” He’s talking like all of this is totally normal. It’s a tactic, I think. A part of his gift. His ability to do things other people can’t do. He observes his knife in my hand. “I can’t believe whoever sent you sent you unarmed.”

“They said it would be worse if I came armed,” I say. “Were they right?”

“I don’t think it could be worse.” He traces the rapier along my jaw until he reaches the sweet spot, the exact angle from which he could kebab my brain.

I press the knife against his neck until I gently cut him. His blood runs down my fingers. He even bleeds politely.

We are at an impasse.

The most valuable skill an assassin can have is—no surprise—the ability to actually kill someone. Jonathan wasn’t wrong when he said it was a special, twisted gift. Not everyone can do it. In fact, most people can’t. They think they can, but when the time comes, they hesitate. With people like me, with people like Jonathan, if you hesitate, you’re too late.

“I really like this sword,” he says. “I’ll always remember you when I look at it.”

“You’ll be too dead to remember anything.”

“If you slit my throat, I won’t die instantly. You know that—you must know that. I will live long enough to make your life a living hell.” He adjusts the angle of the blade, demonstrating all the ways he could end me. “What type of brain trauma do you prefer? Cerebellum? We could take out your hypothalamus. You wouldn’t be able to run and you wouldn’t be able to fuck.” I have to give it to him; he’s a little chilling. I should have known he would make murder overdramatic.

“I’m going to kill you,” I say, straight to the point.

“I can’t wait.” He’s hesitating. We both are.

With a practiced move, I shove the rapier off. The blade barely knicks my throat, but my knife does a little more damage. Blood drips down into his shirt.

“You’re kind of a bleeder,” I point out.

He wipes the blood from his neck. “You’re not wrong. I’ve had seven blood transfusions.”

He pulls his sword on me. I pull the knife. Honestly, his is a lot bigger. It’s a little unfair, but we fence anyway. Forward and backward across the hotel room. Both of us are just biding our time. Maybe we’re looking for an opportunity. Maybe we’re looking for an escape.

Most of my kills are made using an element of surprise. Yes, it’s a little cheating, but murder isn’t about playing fair.

But right now, I don’t even know if I want to kill Jonathan. I’m also not sure why he’s suddenly turned on me. That’s the tricky part. I don’t really know how he feels about me. Right now, he doesn’t look like he feels anything.

“Can I ask what inspired this sudden change in attitude?” I say as we dash across the room.

“It was brought to my attention that you, in fact, are an assassin,” he says.

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that,” he says. “You lied to me.”

“And you’ve been totally honest.”

“Someone hired you, which means someone wants me dead. Don’t you think I might want to know that?”

“No offense, but I would guess that a lot of people want you dead.”

He allows me to thrust him into a corner, where we cross weapons more intensely. He strikes so forcefully that I have to back away. “Who trained you?” he asks.

“Andrew,” I say.

“You’re much better than he was.”

“Thank you.” I beam, genuinely pleased. “But you know, I feel like you’re not really trying.”

He stabs me, deep enough for me to bleed. “Do you feel better now?” he says.

“Fuck you. Seriously.” He knows it’s not fair. He has the better weapon. I’m fencing with a knife.

We continue to fence back and forth but it’s clear both of us are losing steam, looking for an out.

“How do you do it?” he says.

“Do what?” I ask.

“How do you kill people?”

“As if you don’t know.”

“I don’t mean physically.”

I hesitate. I’m not sure if I don’t know the answer or if I’m afraid to admit it. I’ve always told myself I was the hero. That I was saving the world. But I know that Jonathan won’t buy that, and not just because he’s a cynic. He won’t buy it because he understands me. He might be the only person in the world who does. “How do you do it?”

He boxes me against the wall. Our breaths are both pumping—mine slightly more, which annoys me. “I think the world is a terrible place,” he says. “I feel like I’m doing these people a favor.”

His glasses are crooked on his nose. I reach up with my free hand and adjust them.

It’s bait; I’m setting him up. If he tries to stop me, I will slit his wrist, but he doesn’t. He lets me fix them, then blinks in polite discomfort.

“You want to know how I do it?” I ask. “The same way you do, and I mean the real reason. Not all this crap about the world being a terrible place. Killing people is just one of the self-destructive things I do because of the trauma I experienced as a child.” I’m not just hurting other people; I’m hurting myself. I’m staying stuck in trauma instead of moving on, instead of growing up, instead of living . “It’s not about killing other people. It’s about killing myself.”

He jumps back, like my words have hit.

I hesitate, and he unleashes the real moves. He pitches the sword across the room. It buries itself in the wall like an arrow. I realize it’s a distraction.

He shoves me back while tripping me from behind. I land on my back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. But not for long, because he throws the duvet over my face, bundles me up like a burrito and stuffs me under the bed—I’m not kidding.

As ridiculous as it sounds, it’s well planned. By the time I have fought my way out of the duvet—which still smells like him—he’s gone.

I just have to decide if I’m going to follow him, and for what.